I loved Daniel, but I owed Matt the chance to know if our past could catch up to my present.
“Lucy?” I brought my attention back to Dr. Kay. “It’s okay to imagine a different future than the one seemingly laid out in front of you right now. You are not held to anything, or anyone. You are responsible only to yourself. And whatyouwant is as important as what anyone else wants from you.”
“But what if...” I wiped my tears, took a breath to settle my jumbled-up insides. “What if I don’t know what I want?”And what if I figure out what I want, but can’t have it?
She squeezed my arm, then handed me a tissue. “You will, Lucy. I promise, you will.”
22
A small notepad rested on the table between us, and Matt was grinning.
“What’s up?” I asked, somewhat nervous about the eagerness with which he had pulled me over to the table and asked me to sit. Barely giving me a chance to get my coat off after I came in from my session with Dr. Kay, the sting of Daniel forgetting about our coffee date lingering. It was nearly dinnertime and I could smell something delicious wafting out of the kitchen. The table was set with two plates, silverware and water glasses, but there was also a long row of spoons and forks down its center, along with a dozen wineglasses.
Matt continued grinning but didn’t immediately answer my question. Or fill me in on why the table was set like this, or the reason his fingers tapped excitedly against the notepad’s cover. “When did you get home?” I asked.
It was only 6:05 p.m., and by the look and smell of things Matt had to have been home for at least a couple of hours. Consultants at Jameson Porter—especially those on partner track—typically didn’t leave the office by five o’clock, let alone earlier.
He shrugged. “I came home after lunch.” I saw his laptop sitting open but asleep on the coffee table and felt guilty about how much work likely lived behind that dark screen. He had taken so much time off these past two months and I couldn’t help but worry what that meant for his upcoming bid for partner.
Turning my attention back to Matt and his blatant excitement, I slowly unwrapped the scarf from my neck. “So, are you going to give me a clue here? What’s the occasion?”
“This,” he replied, holding up the notepad and then slapping it against the open palm of his other hand. I stared at the notepad, then at him, and my eyebrows rose with impatience.
“A notebook?”
“Not only a notebook,” he replied. “I’ve been doing some research—on memory—and it gave me an idea for how to get some of the missing pieces back.”
My heart sank as I took in his words. I had the distinct feeling I was about to be tested or something, and knew inevitably I would fail at whatever he had planned and we would both feel worse about everything for it.
But all I said was “Okay...”
“Okay.” Matt pulled his chair in and opened the notebook. He held up a bookmark that had been tucked into the notebook’s pages—it was made of a caramel-colored wood, with a leather toggle on its end and bicycles etched into its surface. “I know you won’t remember this, but you hate that I dog-ear pages of books. And you especially hate how I fold the bottom corner instead of the top.”
“I do?” I tried to recall this hate he spoke of but couldn’t. I did, however, remember the first morning I was back home and noting how Matt marked the spot in the book he was reading. While I had found it odd, I couldn’t remember any stronger emotion about it.
He nodded. “You do. So you got me this bookmark shortly after we moved in here.” He held it out to me and I ran my finger over the etched-in bicycles, along the stiff leather toggle strings. It had barely been used.
“I’ve tried,” Matt said, as though reading my thoughts. “But, well, old habits die hard.” He grinned and showed me the edge of the notebook, where I could see a dozen little corner folds along the bottom of the pages.
“Back to my research,” Matt began, setting his finger on a line of text on the first page of the now-open book. “I read up on memory loss and treatments, and it seems spontaneous recovery is a real thing. Lucy, you could get your memory back—all of it, even—one day, like, poof.” He made a fist near his head and then pulled it away, opening his fingers quickly as he did. I nodded, because this was not news. The doctors had mentioned spontaneous recovery, which was how they often handled amnesia in movie plot lines, the character getting a second whack to the head and remembering everything.
“Right,” I said, my tone guarded because I wanted to acknowledge the possibility but without too much enthusiasm. Clinging to something as unpredictable as spontaneous recovery wasn’t a good idea for either of us. Maybe it would happen, but more likely not. I—we—had to learn to live with present circumstances, including my false memories.
“I know it’s a long shot, don’t worry. But then I came across this thing called ‘reminiscence therapy,’ where we would talk about past experiences and use tangible cues—like scent and taste—to help trigger your natural recall.” Matt was animated, his words tumbling out. “We’ve already been doing that a bit, right? With the photos and your list. But this is more specific and not just visual, what I’m proposing we try.”
I nodded, but even though he told me not to, I worried about his excitement. Was concerned about the possible (probable?) disappointment. The photoshadunveiled one memory, of the ski trip, but unfortunately it triggered the confabulation rather than the real thing.
“It’s not a quick fix and it may not work at all,” Matt continued, watching for my reaction. “But I thought maybe it was worth a try.”
I hesitated only briefly. “I’m game,” I said. “So how do we do this?”
“Great. Amazing.” Matt exhaled, ramping back up again. “I made a list, wrote down a few experiences to get us started.”
“Lists are good,” I said, smiling.
“Lists are good,” Matt replied. “I’ve also got props, like more photos and food. Oh, and wine.”
“Wine is also good.”
